Postpartum: What I Miss

Me and my little tyrant

Moms aren't supposed to talk about what they miss about being childless. It goes against the rules of the Sacred Cult of American Motherhood. Nevertheless, I was thinking about the things I miss and how much things have changed since my son arrived on the scene.

I miss my unrestricted time. Literally everything revolves around my son. How much sleep I get a night, how long I can be away from home, when I can eat, take a shower and go to the bathroom. He's the boss. An adorable little tyrant.

I miss being skinny. I'm not saying I'm obese and I'm not fat shaming, I'm just saying I miss my pre-pregnancy body. When I look at my wedding photos I want to cry. Look at how freaking skinny I used to be. Back in the day, back when I was even skinnier than I was in my wedding photos, I remember returning to work after Thanksgiving break at my first real job, an elite private school where my co-workers were mainly middle-aged women. I remember one of them exclaiming to me,"What did you eat for Thanksgiving? Cottage cheese?" and being so annoyed. Now, a mommy pouch and a radically redefined hip-to-waist ratio later, I long for the irritating days when people would feel it necessary to remark on my thinness. I know if I really wanted to "bounce back" (a term I wish I could burn at the stake), I could. I'd just need to really work at it. It is within the realm of possibility. I'm just saying I miss the days where I would eat a couple of those Toll House ice cream cookies for dinner and wash it down with a bottle of vanilla coke and not gain an ounce. SO BAD, but so good. I guess that has less to do with having a baby per se and more to do with being in my mid-thirties and in possession of a slowing metabolism. Alas.

I miss getting hit on. Well, let me qualify that and state that I don't miss being harassed by boneheaded, stupidmouthed jerkfaces, I'm saying part of me misses harmless, fun flirting. Now, I must also qualify again and say that technically, my flirting days were over till death do us part on May 16, 2015, so this is another case that isn't wholly due to having a baby. But there's something about having a baby that 100% shuts it down. Like, we know that getting married puts you on lock, right? If you have a ring on your finger, and more often than not, a husband beside you, the probability of any one flirting with you has already been drastically reduced. But add a baby in the picture and that probability drops to less than zero. You're not just off the market, the market itself has ceased to exist. I think my husband is hot (obviously) and I'm head-over-heels for my little one, but I'm just being honest and saying that sometimes I miss those days of getting (occasional, welcome) attention from handsome guys with nice smiles.

I miss spontaneity. I remember one day there was an indie film playing at this art house theater in a bigger city about 45 minutes away and my husband and I just up and went. Like, we had decided to do it on a whim.  No more of this spur of the moment stuff. Now, everything has to be planned out, and if we want to do date night or anything without little boy, we have to arrange everything at least a week in advance.

I miss reading for pleasure. The last novel I read was finished while I was pregnant. Once little boy entered the world...fuggedaboutit. I mean, during the day, I'm balancing handling him and crossing off things on my to-do list while he's sleeping (like, this blog entry, which is quickly coming to an end because he just woke up). I sometimes try to sneak in some pleasure reading once I've put him down for the night, but by that time I'm so tired, I rarely crack the book open.

Postpartum: Three Months

Our son is now a little over three months old. Everyone keeps telling us how fast babies grow up, and I'm beginning to see how true it is.

We took our first official family portraits yesterday, and little boy showed OUT. Everything he could've done, he did. Fussed, cried, threw up, pooped...it was a true test of parental fortitude. But once we got a look at the pictures, you could scarcely tell that the shots were taken between bouts of tantrums and regurgitation clean up. Exhibit A above. He looks like a calm, cute little suspendered angel.

In the end, I was happy with our pictures. I still have tons of thank you cards to write and perhaps people will overlook the tardiness if I enclose a picture of the little guy.

Sometimes I still can't believe it. I'm married (coming up on three years next month), and have a child. I don't know if it's quite registered with me yet. I don't know what it will take to register that this is my life. In addition to daughter, sister, friend, wife, and professional, I have officially added "mother" to the facets of who I am. I guess I'm still figuring out what that means.

Every time I hit a milestone, I have this thought or expectation, even, that I'll feel differently. That I'll be a different, better, more secure version of myself. Once I got married. Once I finished my PhD. Once I got a tenure-track job. Once I had a child. But what has proven itself time and time again is the fact that I will always be me. The same me that I've always been. Nothing external will ever make me feel ultimately validated or confident or competent or like an adult.

Three months out, I'm still not where I want to be weight wise. I know it will continue to take time. Regardless, I have to come to terms with my new body. Even if I did accomplish the feat of getting back to my pre-pregnancy weight, my body still wouldn't be the same as it was before. I thought getting up at ungodly hours to nurse a hungry baby would be the hardest thing, but that part wasn't as bad as I anticipated. The hardest thing by far has been coming to terms with my postpartum body.

I'm grateful for a loving husband who cherishes me as I am. I trust him enough to believe that he means it when he tells me that I'm beautiful. I read these horrible little mommy message boards that are connected to the baby/pregnancy apps that I'd downloaded, and some of the women vent about their significant others saying some off the chain things to them about their bodies. I'm sitting there reading that stuff doing a whole lot of smh-ing, not fathoming how these chicks are not karate chopping these dudes in the throat. Entitled, insensitive little sexist jerkfaces. Ugh. Jesus I'll never forget what you done for me. For real.

Postpartum: The Great Daycare Search (Is Over)

My sweet guy is getting bigger. He's smiling now, cooing a lot, being more interactive. Had to show him off in his little Easter outfit.

One of the things I was absolutely dreading was putting him in daycare. I didn't even want to start looking, but we finally did and settled on a place that was one of the larger, more established daycares in town. Well, it was just our luck that it closed down. Not due to anything shady about the facility itself, but because the main hospital in town, which owned it, decided it wanted out of the daycare business and desired to use the building for another healthcare facility. Madness ensued. The biggest daycare in town closed down and open spots at other places became a hot commodity.

Options, quality options, were limited. Every other place we went, there was just something I wasn't comfortable with. And the thought of leaving my son somewhere I wasn't quite comfortable with made me want to curl up into a ball and cry.

But. After much prayer and tears and hand-wringing, I happened upon a home daycare in town that wasn't even advertising. It just so happened that there's a spot opening up there because a child's family is moving. It just so happens to be within walking distance of our home and of my job. It just so happens that the owner was willing to compromise with us and allow us to put him in part-time for a reduced rate now and transition to full-time when I go back to work. It's spacious, clean and comfortable. No smokers. The director has a Masters degree. Only 6 children total and one other infant. We both felt comfortable and happy with everything about it.

It's still so hard for me to trust God, in spite of everything. In spite of the way everything has worked out in my life. The things that seemed impossible, difficult or unlikely have always worked out according to God's timing. The way I met my husband. The way I went from not getting the job I originally applied for to now having a tenure-track job. The timing of my son's birth. Every time He does it, my faith is built. But what I still haven't figured out yet is how to maintain that level of faith whenever a new challenge arises.

Tomorrow we'll drop little boy off at the new home daycare for the first time. It'll only be for a few hours 3 days a week, but still, I'm struck with this sense of ambivalence I can't shake. While I'm happy to leave him somewhere I'm comfortable with, the fact remains that I'm leaving him somewhere. I'm looking forward to having a few hours alone to do things around the house and gear up for the fall, but I'm feeling weirdly guilty about looking forward to time without the baby. (Sigh.) Like anything new, I guess it'll just take some getting used to.

Postpartum: Two Months

So, I thought I was going to do this regular, perfectly laid out blog "series" reflecting on my birth experience and motherhood...and then I don't update my blog for almost a month. It is what it is. (I used to hate that phrase with a passion, but here we are.)

My son is two months old today. As I write, he's asleep in his swing. For now.

A lot of people comment on how handsome he is, and who am I to disagree? He's got a head full of dark hair, kissable chunky cheeks, almond-shaped eyes, long lashes, cupid's bow lips, a cleft in his little chin, and now that he's starting to smile, I see that he's inherited his dad's dimples. But...(sigh) there's always a but. There's a part of me that wonders if everyone's obsessed with his looks and his "beauty" because he's biracial. Never heard of the whole "mixed kids are always the most beautiful" stereotype? Read this. Anyway, there's no way to know, and I guess at the end of the day, I'd do well not to expend precious mental energy wondering what problematic thoughts are going on in other people's heads.

These are the names we have for him: Buddies, Buds, Milkmouth (you can see traces of milk in his mouth if I've just nursed him and he starts crying), Triangle Mouth (his mouth is legit shaped like a triangle when he's asleep and it's hanging open) Bobblehead (neck muscles still developing), Cutie Guy, Honeybuns, Poopy (when he has a dirty diaper), Bouncy Boy (when I bounce him on the birthing ball to soothe him). He sounds like a piglet when he cries. He does this snorting thing that is hilarious and adorable. He's starting to coo now and sometimes if you make a cooing noise at him, he'll do it back to you.

In addition to "sleeping when the baby sleeps," I'm supposed to "enjoy this time because they grow up so fast." He's definitely growing up fast. He's just about too big for newborn sized diapers and clothes. Bring on the size 1 diapers (not before we use up the rest of the newborns, tho) and the 0-3 months clothes.

The Great Daycare Search is on. I keep having these imaginary dialogues in my head with a stay-at-home mom who, when she finds out I'm placing my son in daycare, says, "Oh, I couldn't imagine letting someone else raise my child." I'd respond with, "Are you planning to send your child to school when he's of age?" and then she'd say she was. And then I'd say, "So, sending your child to daycare is 'letting someone else raise them' but sending them to school isn't?" I haven't yet figured out my response to the hypothetical stay-at-home mom who's homeschooling. I don't want to put my son in daycare. It's not something I'm looking forward to. I'm enjoying the time I get to spend with him while I'm on maternity leave. But to be honest, I don't know if I'd want to be a stay-at-home mom, either. If I get too wrapped up in my ambivalent feelings about being a professional woman who's now a mom, my mind can take me down some pretty dark roads. I just have to believe that God is going to continue to take care of our family.

Postpartum: "Sleep when the baby sleeps"

So, it's been a while. Ahem.

Not like I've been busy or anything. It actually feels like I don't do anything all day. Nothing but take care of the baby. Which IS something. It just goes to show how much we've been socialized to devalue taking care of children. As if it isn't "productive" enough to be valuable, noteworthy or substantive.

Our little guy is now more than a month old.

Quite a handsome little guy, if I may say so myself.

It's been all right. Getting up in the middle of the night to nurse him is tough, but I don't feel like a zombie or anything during the day. I don't always sleep when he sleeps, but I do take a nap once my husband gets home and that helps out a lot.

I had a couple of rough nights when he was first born, before my milk came in, but otherwise it hasn't been this tortuous thing.

I just feel like I've been told negative things about taking care of a child, i.e. "You're not going to get any sleep," "Breastfeeding is hard," etc. And I know people are just being honest with me or trying to prepare me so I'm not blindsided, but once I got to the point of experiencing these things myself, I was expecting them to be so much worse than they actually were.

Here's an unsolicited advice story: My in-laws came to visit last week, and we went to dinner and brought our little guy with us. We had him in his car seat and covered it with a blanket. It was crowded and busy and we were waiting for a table along with several other people. Of course when you have a baby out in public, people are going to ask you questions and offer their two cents. But this old lady sitting near us needed to go saddown. Speaking of the baby in the car seat being covered with a blanket, she said, "He looks hot. You don't want him to get uncomfortable and overheated. You need to get a breathable blanket. My sons and daughters use breathable blankets for their kids and they're so much more comfortable for them. You can get them on Amazon, you should order one." My husband was just like, "He's fine." LOL. Chill out, old lady. Talking about some "he looks hot." Girl, he's covered with a blanket, you can't even see him to begin with. Breathable blanket, schmeathable schmanket.

Oh, and another baby-out-in-public-girl-saddown story: We were at the pediatrician's office, again, with the baby in the car seat and covered with a blanket. He started fussing, so P lifted it to give him a pacifier or whatever, and the people sitting on either side of us leaned in to see him. "Aww, he's so adorable," they said. And that's fine, I mean, you're sitting right next to us, so there's not much for you to do to be able to see the baby. He's right in front of you. But this girl sitting opposite us on the other side of the room got up and walked over to peer inside the car seat to see the baby. Girl, what are you doing? My baby is not a sideshow attraction. Go saddown. Literally.

The same birthing ball I bounced on while I was in labor I now use to soothe little boy. When I'm trying to put him down for the night, I hold him and bounce on it and he loves it. One night bouncing with my son on the ball, I was suddenly overcome with the realization that what my husband and I have done is permanent. Everlasting. Even more lasting than our marriage. God forbid, but a marriage can be undone. Having a child can never be undone. Bringing a new life into the world isn't just OMG, I have a cute baby. He is a living soul. He has an entire life ahead of him.

Postpartum: "Your body will know"

Here I sit, with an apparatus attached to my mammary glands, extracting milk to build up a supply so that people other than me can feed our insatiably hungry little guy. Did you know breast milk can stay good for up to 6 months if frozen? And is this what dairy cows go through day in and day out? Should I moo in solidarity?

One of the things about the whole process of pregnancy, giving birth, and now being a mom is this idea of your body "knowing" things. That your body does things outside of your realm of knowledge, desire or control and that you just have to go with it. That's what I was told about being ready to push right before I delivered our son. "Your body will know when to push." And it was true.

On one hand, your body "knowing" is kind of wonderful. It's instinctual, primal, miraculous. My body knew when I was ready to push. When I felt the urge to push, it was along with my contractions, as if my conscious self and my knowing body worked together. My body knows how much milk to produce for my son. There's nothing I have to do to make sure he gets enough or to make sure he's getting the right nutrients. It just knows.

However, on the other hand, your body "knowing" also indicates that your body has a mind of its own and will do whatever it wants to do without your knowledge or consent. Case in point, my feet still being swollen and not being able to fit into any of my shoes except for some flats I recently bought a whole size bigger. There are things beyond the realm of my control, but one of the things I used to be able to reliably control was my body. But lately (especially when I step on the scale these days), my body has been basically like, "Oh, you thought you were in control? Hahaha...sike." So, I'm stuck with swollen feet, a dark postpartum belly, weird marks in other places (please, God let them fade) and a lot of extra junk, and not just in the trunk.

I know, I should just accept the fact that my body just performed the miraculous a little over two weeks ago and give myself a break. And then here comes my personal trainer brother calling me asking about my postpartum workout plans and talking about some "fasted cardio." Boy, if you don't...

So, although my body and I worked together on the big day, it's continuing to do its own thing. Body, my friend, can we please get back on the same page? Kthxbai.

Postpartum: They Say

Our son, a few hours after birth

On my bed are clean baby clothes that I had to wash from yesterday's diaper blowout. Beside me is a bassinet, and inside of it is my son. My beautiful son, who's sleeping peacefully. For now. He'll be two weeks old on Saturday.

There are so many things about becoming a mother that I'd like to write about, that I'm still processing. What I probably won't do is write a chronological account of the birth from the moment my water broke (and they say it doesn't necessarily gush out like in the movies, but let's just say I had a Hollywood experience) to when I first held him in my arms. What I think I'd rather do is just write a series of vignettes or reflections. So, the next few posts will be a series called Postpartum. 

Nothing will do it justice. Nothing will capture it all. Nothing will explain why I cried on the way home from the hospital. I can try: It wasn't because I was sad to go home or feeling unprepared to bring the baby home. I was ready to go home. It was that I had this singular, ineffable experience at the hospital and leaving was leaving a piece of that experience behind. Leaving was a realization that there are some things you can't take with you.

I still can't believe what took place. I pushed a tiny human being out of my body with no medication and no interventions. To say that I'm pleased I did that or proud I did that would be an oversimplification. Giving birth is giving birth. If a baby came out of you, you gave birth, regardless of whether medication was involved or not, whether it was a C-section or the "natural" way. I don't think of myself as a more righteous person for having done it the way I did. Rather, I just see myself as having a goal and meeting that goal. 

I don't even know where to start. 

The peak: When they laid him in my arms, my husband standing beside me, and I said, "Honey, this is our son! This is our son!"

I was shivering afterward. Was it the IV? I asked the nurse about it. "Oh, you've just got the baby shakes." The baby shakes. Euphoria combined with exhaustion?

They say that recovery is faster with unmedicated births. About half an hour afterward, I was sitting up eating a cheeseburger and fries.

They say it happens when you least expect it. Hasn't that cliche proven true in my life time and time again? 39 weeks to the day. Which is technically 100% full term, but I thought I had at least another week. They say first time moms usually go past their due dates.  I swear I was in bed literally reading about the difference between Braxton-Hicks and labor contractions on my phone because I thought I was possibly feeling...but it couldn't be. Not yet. But then, wait...am I peeing on myself? I must be because there is no freaking way it's...not yet. And when I got out of bed to confirm it wasn't what I thought it wasn't, it was. All over the hardwood floor.

When the contractions got real, during each one, I squeezed my husband's hand to death.

When our son first cried, it sounded like, A-haaaaaa, a-haaaaa, a-haaaaa with vibrato.

Pregnancy Cries

1. The entire first half of Moana, especially the part where the ocean "chooses" her when she's a little toddler and the song the villagers sing, "Where You Are" while Moana grows up.

2. In the shower, imagining my son getting bullied when he goes to school.

3. Waking up one morning with the overwhelming feeling of "not having anything ready for the baby."

4. The end of the video for the song "Glosoli" by Sigur Ros where these little Icelandic children jump off of a cliff and start to fly over the ocean.

5. The end of the movie Coco where the little boy sings "Remember Me" with his great-grandma.

6. Visiting my parents and my mom asking whether we wanted to watch Planet of the Apes or La La Land. (The actual reasons for the crying were more complex, but that is what set me off.)

7. The idea of someone at school telling my friend's little daughter that she's darker-skinned than her twin sister as if it were something to be ashamed of.

(Dis)comfort

37 weeks and 5 days. Less than 3 weeks to go. Supposedly. Only 5 percent of babies are delivered on their actual due dates. So I might have more time. Or less. At this point, who knows?

How are you feeling? Um, fine. I guess I'm getting to that uncomfortable stage, you know, trying to find a comfortable position to get to sleep at night, but otherwise I'm fine. I have sporadic heartburn and my feet are consistently swollen (they look like little loaves of bread), but really, I'm fine.

Oh, honey, you're gonna get to the point where you're so over it, you're just gonna want it to be out. Okay, but I guess I haven't gotten to that point yet, and I don't know if I ever will. I could see if I were uber pregnant at the height of summer all sweaty and hot and bothered, but it's in the dead of winter, and I'm in no rush. Like, hold the cervical checks. For real. I mean, I'm excited to meet our little guy, but I'm not like OMGeeeee, I want to go into labor already. It's still sort of surreal to me. I'm saying, I know the baby is going to come out at some point, but I have no frame of reference for what is about to happen to me.

So, I hired a doula. My ideal is a low-intervention, non-medicated birth, and a doula will help me meet that goal. The idea is that everyone else will be focused on the baby, but the doula will be focused on me. She'll be helping me draw up a "birth plan" beforehand, helping me with pain management while I'm in labor, incorporating P into the process as well (so he's not a helpless guy not knowing what to do), providing breastfeeding support. I'm really glad we made the choice to hire her, especially for a first-time birthing experience. To be clear, I'm not wedded to having a natural non-medicated birth. It's what I want, but sometimes things don't go as planned. And I'm okay with that possibility.

My best friend expressed being annoyed with the fact that the pain women experience (in a medical situation) is often described as "discomfort." Okay, you may feel a bit of discomfort here...Bruh, it's going to hurt.

I don't know how I'm going to react to the pain of childbirth. But I'm going to try to allow my body to do what it was designed to do. And our son is going to come when he's ready to come.

Babaseyi

is a Yoruba name which means "God has done this." It is a name given to my son by a Nigerian family I grew up in church with. There is a Nigerian tradition of naming ceremonies where people give a child a special name that they will personally call him/her. I feel so honored that our family friends would care so much about our son to give him a special name. I don't know where my ancestors came from, but it's likely they were from West Africa, which includes Nigeria. Who knows? I can't help but feel like his Yoruba name is a part of reconnecting with something special and sacred.

For the past week and a half, I've been in my hometown with my husband and my parents chilling hard. I have been a complete bum and have enjoyed every minute of it. Being lazy has been interspersed with meeting up with family and friends, enjoying lots of holiday food and each others' company.

Before arriving to spend time with my family, my husband and I had what I guess you'd call a "babymoon." We spent a couple of days at a bed and breakfast en route to our final destination, got massages, ate some good food, went to a live show, and just generally vegged out. It was probably the last time for a while that we'd get to do something nice together, just the two of us, before the baby comes.

I am currently 36 weeks. As in, literally 4 weeks to go before I reach my due date. I truly can't believe it. It feels like there's still so much to do before I'll feel "ready" for the baby. I don't know if I'll ever feel ready. One of the things I'm looking into is hiring a doula, particularly since my ideal is to have a non-medicated birth. There's furniture yet to arrive—chest of drawers, bookshelf, glider. There are clothes to be washed, child care options to be explored, books to be read. It doesn't seem real.

We head back to home base tomorrow morning. This will be the last time I visit my parents' home before I become a mother. I'm not ready to leave. I've never been good at saying goodbye, even for a little while.

This new year will bring its challenges, for sure. But it will also bring one of the most exciting experiences of my life—bringing our son into the world. May I never forget that God has done this.

I'm done.

As of Tuesday at 12:30 pm or so, I finished submitting all my final grades. That means I'm done. The semester is completely over, and I have no additional work responsibilities until next August. No more class prep. It's all baby prep now.

Or at least it should be. At some point I'm supposed to get blindsided by a "nesting" instinct that is going to make me go crazy cleaning and making sure everything is perfectly ready for baby's arrival. But so far, all I've been doing is loafing around the house in an ill-fitting robe, drinking vanilla caramel tea and reading a novel on my Kindle. 

I'm definitely aware of baby. I know that his arrival is imminent. His movements feel like he's stretching inside me. You know how you wake up in the morning and stretch? That's what he does. I can feel the bulk of his body parts rolling up against the inside of me. I can look down at my belly and watch it literally move, pulse, poke out and roil. He's in there. He is a living being who is inside of my body, making his presence known. 

But for some reason, I just can't fathom giving birth. Like, I know logically that he's going to come out of there somehow, but it seems like it's not going to happen. Whenever anything changes about your life you sort of adjust to it, usually. Right now, I don't think of my pregnancy as this temporary state with a purpose—incubating a human in order to add one more member to the planet's population—I think of it as these gradual changes in my body that I've just grown accustomed to. Well, with the exception of feeling the baby move. I don't think I will ever get used to that.

I can't picture myself as a sweaty woman writhing in pain, straining to push a baby out. I can't see myself as that. I guess kind of like when I couldn't see myself as an obviously pregnant woman with a big old baby bump poking out. When are you due? Do you know whether it's a boy or girl? Do you have any names picked out? The questions now flow forth in more or less that order. Apparently, according to some expert observers, I'm "all baby." In other words, I don't look like I've gotten significantly fatter aside from the baby bump. Thanks. I guess.

I am in love. I can't stop looking at the pictures of my son. My son who looks like me. My son who is a part of me. I know he looks like me, or at least my side of the family, but I suspect there may still be some possible surprises in store. We still don't know what his hair or eye color will be. The odds are that both will be brown, but I have a secret hope that he has red hair. Not fire engine red, but that coppery red. The Irish might decide to pop out there, who knows? I also really want him to have at least one dimple, like his dad. I guess we'll find out in a little over a month from now.

Coffee Shop Musings at 33 Weeks

I gave my last final yesterday. I still have to grade my final exams. I'm at a coffee shop trying to stay out of my husband's hair because he has a Skype interview this afternoon. I don't want to even be near when the interview is going down because I feel like he needs absolute me time and I don't want my presence to add to his stress.

Right before I gave my last final, the last final I will give until next fall, my students presented me with a thank you card. It had a picture of a pear on the front and on the inside they all signed it around a message that said "You and JoJo will make a perfect 'pear'." I held it together, but it was so sweet and unexpected. It really felt like the perfect last day.

Speaking of JoJo, one tiny mystery of my son's existence has been solved: How does he look? Who does he look like? I had a growth scan Wednesday, and the technician got some freakishly clear images of my son's face. He is undoubtedly, unequivocally my son:

His baby face. His baby nose, baby lips, baby cheeks. This is who I will be bringing into the world in about 7 weeks, give or take. He has a name. He has a face. A Bernini sculpture of a baby face. What is he thinking about, dreaming about, in his dark, warm world? He moves in me, alive. He is mine.

Grading is boring. I really hate grading. How are you going to be a professor and hate to grade? Like, it's one-third of my whole job. These exams are the last thing I will have to grade for 8 months. What are exams, grades, the strokes of a red pen when you have a beautiful human inside of you?

I read a terrible article yesterday. Actually, I read part of a terrible article because I couldn't bring myself to get through the rest of it. Black women die from childbirth and childbirth-related complications at three times the rate of white women. Well, the article itself wasn't terrible, but the facts it related are and the story it centers upon is heartbreaking. As with other outraging, disgusting race-related things that are realities in our world, I'm kind of over extensively expressing my feelings about them. It's tiring. JoJo's going to wear me out when he comes on the scene. I have to reserve my energy for him.

My husband. This man who is already over the moon about our son. He's a methodical man. When he prepares, he thoroughly prepares. He doesn't do off-the-cuff. He is a perfectionist. He reserves his harshest criticism for himself. My husband. This man who loves profoundly and steadfastly. He is earnest, sincere, sensitive and strong. This man whose child I have inside me. We, in a human imitation of God, created a being in our own image. A living soul who will breathe the breath of Life. I want to fully grasp who my husband is, especially in the mornings when he's still asleep beside me, radiating heat. I know him and I love what I know. But there are parts of him beyond me, that will always elude my grasp, that I will never be able to hold up to the light and examine like a precious stone. We are one, but he is still a singular person who exists apart from me. It's strange to ponder how our wildly divergent paths crossed, the events in our lives that led to us meeting, then joining. There's still something unbelievable, wonderful and strange about it to me. Why did we decide to take such a chance on each other? Sitting at the table eating leftover spaghetti and meatballs for dinner, I was suddenly overwhelmed with the fact that I married a good man and that we're starting a family together. At one time, I desired those things. At one time, I was afraid those things were somehow unattainable for someone like me. I hope I never get to the point where I take these fulfilled desires for granted.

Thanksgiving Eve

It's early in the morning. I've been awake since 4:30. My husband is soundly asleep beside me, and my son is awake inside me. His movements have become less fluttery, less like individual jabs (although there are still those) and more like stretches. He presses against me, turns. I watch my belly pulse and ripple.

We're leaving in a few hours to go to my husband's side of the family for Thanksgiving. We alternate holidays: last year, Thanksgiving was with my side of the family, Christmas was with his. I've learned to say "my side of the family" and "his side of the family" instead of "my family" or "his family." You know, since my family is his and his family is mine and all of that. The wisdom that comes with two years of marriage.

In past years, when it was his side of the family's turn for Thanksgiving, we've spent it with his mom. This year, we're spending it with his dad. There are people on his dad's side I still haven't met, and my husband wants me to meet them.

I washed and straightened my hair last night (well, it was already more or less straightened from the last time I flat ironed it a few weeks ago, but now I got that fresh press) in part because I'm about to be around a lot of white people. My natural hair is great and I love it, but in certain contexts, it can be a spectacle. And when you have a spectacular thing like natural black hair around lots of white people, you stand out even more than you already do and people may be so bold as to ask about it or even touch it. And I don't want to talk about what I do to my hair to people who have no concept of what it means to have my hair (National Geographic voice over: The black woman, in her natural habitat, pulls a wide-toothed comb through her damp, conditioner-laden hair...), and I certainly don't want anyone to try to touch it. Well, I might let you if you're one of my little nieces or nephews. Aunt Chantell, you have fluffy hair. Yup, I sure do.

So, after Thanksgiving, we will spend time with my mother-in-law, and she wants to do a little family baby shower for me. That will be nice. I just need to manually update my Target registry so I don't get yet another baby monitor or bottle rack. The thing is, if you aren't ordering things online, the registry doesn't update when you're in store unless you bring the registry thing up there for the cashier to scan, and lots of people fail to do that. I know, because I failed to do it when I bought a few items at Target right before someone else's baby shower who was also registered there.

In a little while, it'll be road trip time. NPR podcasts, gas station stops, fast food. I'm looking forward to getting a chicken biscuit this morning, truth be told. We don't have a Chick-fil-a in our humble town.

30 Weeks

So, today officially marks the 10-week countdown. That is utterly ridiculous. 10 weeks is nothing. Like, it is so scarily close, but at the same time, I know I have no concept of how radically everything is about to change. And soon.

How did the baby go from the size of a tomato seed to a butternut squash in such a small amount of time? It's like, for the longest time, I was quasi-pregnant with a barely noticeable bump, and then one day, BAM, I wake up with a soccer ball stuffed inside me, unable to completely bend over and waddling when I walk.

And I do waddle when I walk now. Ugh. I'm still walking to and from work, and I'll do that for as long as humanly possible (we only have like, two more weeks of class before finals anyway), but still, I can feel the change in my gait, and it's totally unavoidable. I also stumble more often than usual (so embarrassing). Sometimes I'll be in the shower crying because I'm daydreaming about my son getting picked on when he goes to school (why?). Sometimes I'll be in the middle of teaching and just straight up forget words. In Spanish and English. Pregnancy brain? Every dumb little thing I do, I blame it on the pregnancy. That's what I tell my students to make them laugh, anyway.

Since my last post with Curious George in the swing, P has now put together our pack and play, bassinet and stroller. The last thing he'll contend with before our little guy makes his entrance into the world will be the crib. (There's also the high chair, but we have a little more time before we'll need that.) I didn't know I had such a handy husband.

I guess part of this industriousness was prompted by my waking up one morning a week or so ago freaking out because I was seized by this feeling of things "not being ready for the baby." My husband, ever calm, suggested we make out a list of what we needed to do. It's now up on the fridge, and we've since crossed a few things off.

One of the things on our list that I'm dreading is checking out childcare options. It's a small town, so it's not like there are millions of places, and I've already talked to a lot of my colleagues with children to get recommendations so it's not like we have no guidance whatsoever, but the idea just makes me nervous. The idea of leaving my child somewhere, the idea of the kinds of people who would be caring for him and the kinds of kids he would be surrounded by, the idea of finding a good "fit," the idea of the financial concerns tied into childcare. The whole thing makes me nervous and makes me want to put it off. But we totally can't.

We're also taking childbirth and breastfeeding classes this month. So far, they've been helpful. The instructor is a woman who's been a nurse for like 20 years or something and she's really funny and upbeat. But the other couples who are attending the class, white kids in their 20s (possibly teens?), make me feel like an old, exotic oddball. Like, are there NO other black women giving birth around the same time I am in the entire city?

There are several of my fellow co-workers who are also having babies in the spring or have just had babies, and I came up with the idea to have a "mom's group." In my former life, I would have been so not down with anything even approximating a "mom's group" because it just sounds so basic and trite, but I think we, as professional women at the same institution, should stick together and encourage one another, and moms who have just had little ones can give us advice. Most everyone was really open to it, so we'll see how it goes. Maybe we'll meet at the little coffee shop in town at the beginning of January, once we all get back from winter break.

I'm obsessed with what our child is going to look like, what he's going to be like. There's an entire human in there who is going to come out and be a complete person existing in the world. What does that even mean? We'll get a sneak peek at what he's going to look like in a few weeks with a 3D ultrasound, another one of those things I used to disparage (because they look so freaky), but that I'm looking forward to now. Will I be able to tell whether he'll have my husband's eyes, eyelashes and cute little dimple? Guess we'll see.

Nasc & Nat

1. There's a yellow cake baking in the oven. I'm using a bundt pan and once it cools, I'm going to drizzle it with chocolate glaze. And then I'm going to get a chunk of it accompanied with a cold, tall glass of milk.

2. I came home from work to find my husband assembling our baby's swing. So, once he was done, of course, I had to do this:

3. I couldn't even get past the first half of Moana without having a meltdown. 

4. Zoning out more often than normal, I keep thinking about how weird it is that I married P, a guy I had barely spoken to before we had coffee that one time, and then we were engaged 8 months after that. It's weird that we've only been married for 2 years, and now I'm carrying his child. I'm not saying I feel like I don't know him or anything. I'm just saying, one day, he was this unknown guy in a hoodie, and the next, he's my baby daddy. It's weird how quickly things can change. Like, one day I was a student in Georgia worrying about comps, and the next I'm a professor in Kentucky with a soccer ball belly and a really Irish last name.

5. P and I read Baby J a story in Spanish. He can hear now and will be able to recognize our voices when he enters the world. We read him Huevos verdes con jamón, the Spanish version of Green Eggs and Ham, alternating pages. (Spoiler alert: Sam-I-Am's hispanophone alter ego is Juan Ramón. They had to make it rhyme with "jamón.") I really think little boy listened and liked it because after we finished, he started moving around like crazy. Like maybe he wanted to hear another. 

6. I'm going to get another piece of cake.

Gentle Man

A gentle man makes me cry. He's reserved, unassuming. He's soulful, creative. I think some people mistake his quietness for passivity. But I know the passion. The wells of empathy that ache. We all come with a backstory.

I came downstairs, ready for work, and he pulled out French toast kept warming in the oven. Vanilla caramel tea with the right amounts of sugar and milk were already in my to-go cup. These small things. They're scribbled messages like the ones I used to leave him propped up on the computer when he taught a class in the same room right after me. I am grateful. I appreciate you. I do not take you for granted. I want to take care of you.

The crib that my father-in-law told us he'd buy arrived. It's only a big box in our living room now, but what it's for is what made me cry. It's for our baby. We put a crib on our registry because we need it for our baby. Because he will need a place to sleep. Those are things I know, logically. But the big box in our living room is tangible. Physical. Bodily. Like the little boy inside me. My gentle man, comforting. Smiling his shy, knowing smile.

A couple invited us over for dinner last night. A kind professor on my hall whose gray hair belies her girlish face, married to a gentle man, also a professor, who has the same name and is the same kind as my husband. Their brown, curly haired, dimpled daughter. It was an open adoption, she tells me. The one thought that moved me to tears: How does a mother say goodbye?

I learned about the former wife at a previously attended dinner party. An off-handed comment. I learned that the former wife died when the kind professor took a short walk down the hall and chatted with me for a while. Her husband, the gentle man like mine, is also a poet, like her. An accomplished one. The book he published was a part of processing his grief, she said.

The former wife was mentioned again last night after dinner. No details, but a sad story, I surmised. When my body got up this morning at 6, unable to sleep any longer, I looked up the gentle man's work. After reading just one poem, I knew. Even though he didn't give explicit details, I didn't need them. I knew. I knew what happened to the former wife and at least a piece of why. And, once again, I cried.

Now I understand a part of his quiet passion, of his wells of empathy. When he smiles the same shy, knowing smile my husband does, I understand a part of the ache. We all come with a backstory.

The Tipping Point

That's the title of a book by one of my past writerly crushes, Malcolm Gladwell. I even emailed him once and he wrote me back. It made my entire life.

So, I'm getting to the point where certain articles of clothing I have that aren't maternity wear but could still work as maternity wear are beginning not to work as maternity wear anymore.

So, yeah. I have the feeling that this is the last week or so I'll be able to wear this non-maternity dress to work.

I'm 100% knocked up now. Not like I wasn't before, but this week it's just straight up girl, you pregnant. My walks to and from work aren't as brisk, but I'm still loving it and I guess enjoying my still relatively unlimited mobility.

The only area where my mobility is starting to be limited is bending down. Is this the bending down tipping point?

I have a nice hand rest while I'm teaching now. I just kind of interlace my fingers and just prop my hands up on my belly while I'm explaining the nuances of the progressive tenses or what have you. It's kind of nice.

What's not nice? Seeing those numbers on the scale. Every time I dare get on the blasted scale, as my students would say, I'm shook.

Gummy bears and brownies. Are they healthy? Nah. Shall they be consumed tonight? You better believe it. And no, I'm not "craving" them. As if I have some sort of inexplicable primal desire for them. Ain't even gonna lie. I just like brownies and gummy bears and now I have a pretty solid excuse to stuff my face with them.

There is a living thing inside me

and it is a feeling I will never get used to.
Sitting at my desk responding to a never-ending stream of emails, and the little guy inside me is practicing tae kwon do moves. Right hand strikes and snap kicks to the uterus.
It's not painful, but it's just weird. And constant.
He's getting bigger and stronger.
I can feel the extra weight when I walk. Not quite a waddle. Yet.
Today I looked like I stuffed a cantaloupe under my dress.
Things annoyed me today:
Students unhappy with their C papers.
Girl, it was a C paper. Take responsibility for it.
Unending hammering outside. All last week, too.
And I like to work at work and relax at home, but when I can't concentrate at work because of incessant hammering...
So, I walked home earlier than usual.
And my feet are swollen. I have cankles.
When I bound upstairs or even just flex my toes, I can literally feel the fluid in my feet.
Getting up from a seated position is no longer the fluid motion it used to be.
It's an old-lady, creaky getting up. Gotta hold on to something, push off of something, steady myself while getting up.
I want freshly baked French bread dipped in olive oil. PF Chang's crispy honey shrimp. Cheese fries. Warm chocolate chip cookies with a tall, cold glass of milk. They are not "cravings." I don't believe in cravings. They are things I already like that I just happen to want.
I think over 50% of pregnancy is an old wives tale. "If you carry high, it's a girl, if you carry low, it's a boy." "If you crave salty foods, it's a boy, if you crave sweet foods, it's a girl." "If you have heartburn, that means your baby is going to have a lot of hair." Get outta here.
I'm already a skeptic, and for whatever reason, pregnancy is just making me want to side eye things (and people) more than usual.
Or cry.
This morning I cried before going to work because I was sad that having a baby would mean that my husband and I would have no more relaxing weekends like the one we just had.
Don't worry about that honey. It'll be okay.
What is our son going to look like? What is he going to be like? How much of who he is will be up to me (okay, us), and how much will be up to the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune?
What does it mean to create something that is part of you?
Is that just a slice of what God feels like?
There is a living thing inside me.
And it will never be normal.

Just Adjust

I remember the first time I went to the doctor. At the time, I didn't look pregnant in the least bit and was in the waiting room with a few other women who obviously were. I remember thinking to myself that I couldn't picture myself looking that way. I couldn't imagine myself in any way other than the way I looked at that time. But here I am, at 22 weeks now, looking pretty pregnant:

I'm adjusting to my new reality, because I have no choice. I feel like that's what actually having a baby is going to be like. Right now, I don't know what it's going to mean to have another human being that my husband and I created living with us. I can't conceive of that reality. (As my friend would say, "Well, you've already conceived it." har, har.) But that reality will come, and then we'll just adjust to it.

Little Song for Little Boy

Little Jo
Little Josiah
You are our little boy
Little Jo
Little Josiah
You are gonna be born
You are gonna be born
Cuz you are our little boy.

Don't you know that Mommy loves you?
You know that Daddy loves you
You know that Mommy loves you
And you know that Daddy loves you

You are our little boy
And you are gonna be born
You are gonna be born
Cuz you are our little boy.